familiar, he pushed back his glasses on his nose.

"I thank you," answered he; "it is not so easy as you may suppose to
hide anything from me." He took one of the packets of pasteboard slips
form his desk, and shuffling them like a pack of cards, continued, "Your
name is Marie Paul Violaine. You were born at Poitiers, in the Rue
des Vignes, on the 5th of January, 1843, and are therefore in your
twenty-fourth year."

"That is quite correct, sir."

"You are an illegitimate child?"

The first question had surprised Paul; the second absolutely astounded
him.

"Quite true, sir," replied he, not attempting to hide his surprise; "but
I had no idea that M. Tantaine was so well informed; the partition which
divided our rooms must have been thinner than I thought."

Mascarin took no notice of this remark, but continued to shuffle and
examine his pieces of cardboard. Had Paul caught a clear glimpse of
these, he would have seen his initials in the corner of each.

"Your mother," went on Mascarin, "kept, for the last fifteen years of
her life, a little haberdasher's shop."

"Just so."

"But a business of that description in a town like Poitiers, does not